The Concept of Family
by SixStringCoffeeBean
Summary: The day of Gozaburo Kaiba's funeral has arrived, and Seto is feeling less than mournful. Songfic to "Styrofoam Plates" by Death Cab for Cutie.


I haven't done a songfic in years, but this one came to me and I had to write it. I churned it out unusually quickly - probably an hour turnaround from starting to write to final edits, and I spent half of that on the elliptical machine. So here you go: "Styrofoam Plates" by Death Cab for Cutie, styled to fit Gozaburo Kaiba's funeral. I'm sort of enamored with the idea that Seto may have pushed his stepfather out a window (or at least witnessed Gozaburo's suicide and did nothing to stop him) and then had to play the sympathetic son at a funeral later. The story is told in alternating perspectives between Seto and Mokuba. Also, I tried to write a Japanese-style funeral. I'm drawing most of my knowledge about how those are conducted from the first episode of Usagi Drop and a little bit of research. That said, I'm no expert on Buddhist/Shinto tradition, so I know I will probably mess something up. Apologies in advance; feel free to correct me in a review!

I also know the song isn't exactly perfect for the Kaibas' circumstances, because it reflects poverty (which was definitely not one of their problems) and it also references a mother (who wasn't in the picture in their case), but the feeling in general and the last verse in particular seemed so fitting that I had to write the story anyway.

Enjoy; r/r plz. ;)

* * *

 _There's a saltwater film on the jar of your ashes;_  
 _I threw them to sea but a gust blew them backwards_  
 _And the sting in my eyes that you then inflicted_  
 _Was par for the course just as when you were living._

Standing in the circle of mourners surrounding Gozaburo Kaiba's coffin, Mokuba shifted his feet anxiously. The nine-year-old looked up at his elder brother, desperately seeking some cue for the next move he should make. He had been following Seto around - literally and figuratively - for the better part of the day, doing his best to imitate his brother's effortlessly placid expression, purposeful steps, and deceptively sympathetic eyes.

It was a charade, but a flawless one - and one that Mokuba knew he would do well to copy as closely as he could.

From the moment the two of them had awoken that morning and wordlessly put on the pressed black suits, white shirts, and silk ties that had been left hanging outside their doors, they assumed the roles of dutiful sons, playing their part in their stepfather's funeral with dignity and poise. Their perceived grief, much like the suits themselves, was something uncomfortable that they would button up when the day started and shed with relief once it was finally over.

 _It's no stretch to say you were not quite a father_  
 _But a donor of seeds to a poor single mother_  
 _That would raise us alone,_  
 _We'd never see the money_  
 _That went down your throat_  
 _Through the hole in your belly._

The critical moment had come, when the boys were to lead the others in placing white chrysanthemums around the body of man they had called Father. Seto had gone through the motions all day, tying his own tie and that of his brother, bowing to each one of his late stepfather's associates, and lighting the incense that had been set out. All of that had seemed hollow enough, but the expression of grief associated with picking up the white flowers and tenderly placing them beside that man's closed, deep-set eyes and sallow cheeks was almost too much.

Seto only hoped he would be able to do it with a straight face.

 _Thirteen years old in the suburbs of Denver_  
 _Standing in line for Thanksgiving dinner at the catholic church_  
 _The servers wore crosses_  
 _To shield from the sufferance plaguing the others._

Mokuba followed his brother to the table that had been set out and watched as Seto scooped a handful of white petals out of a glass bowl. He did likewise, then followed him over to the open wooden coffin that sat in the center of the room. Mokuba could feel the guests' eyes following them, and something about it felt like a test - as though the nameless faces were watching the boys' every move, waiting to pounce on the first clue that their grief was less than genuine.

 _Styrofoam plates, cafeteria tables_  
 _Charity reeks of cheap wine and pity_  
 _And I'm thinking of you; I do every year_  
 _When we count all our blessings_

 _And wonder what we're doing here._

Seto leaned down over the coffin first, unashamedly reveling in the feeling of looking down on his stepfather from above. The man's face hardly looked different in death than it had in life. The loss of an animating spirit had done little to smooth out the harsh lines around Kaiba's eyes and mouth - creases that certainly hadn't come from smiling.

 _You're a disgrace to the concept of family_  
 _The priest won't divulge that fact in his homily_  
 _And I'll stand up and scream_  
 _If the mourning remain quiet,_  
 _You can deck out a lie in a suit but I won't buy it._

Mokuba watched as his brother placed his flower on the pillow beside their stepfather's head. Something about the way Seto positioned it was a little bit crooked, and Mokuba knew better than anyone that Seto never did anything less than perfectly - that is, unless he was doing it on purpose.

 _I won't join in the procession that's speaking their peace._  
 _Using five dollar words while praising his integrity._  
 _And just cause he's gone it doesn't change the fact_

The guests all assumed that the whispered words out of Seto's mouth were a blessing - a tender by-your-leave or expression of gratitude that he wanted to pass on to his stepfather before the coffin was sealed and taken away. Only Mokuba, standing close enough to feel the heat from his brother's breath, heard the words themselves.

 _He was a bastard in life thus a bastard in death._


End file.
